


In Every Universe: Erased

by BrightlyBound



Series: In Every Universe [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Amnesia, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-04-20 18:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14266548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightlyBound/pseuds/BrightlyBound
Summary: Ginny should have known that the day she crossed paths with Harry again, her world would turn completely on its head. Maybe if she’d known it was coming, if she’d been mentally prepared, then this mystifying run-in wouldn’t have revealed her to be such a fucking madwoman.As it was, he had just thrown her out of a pub, so there was that.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I shouldn’t be posting this as I’ve yet to finish writing it. I’ve planned for eight chapters and only just started the fourth, but whatever. It’s Monday, I hope this brings someone joy.

_Dec 27, 2001_

Ginny should have known that the day she crossed paths with Harry again, her world would turn completely on its head. Maybe if she’d known it was coming, if she’d been mentally prepared, then this mystifying run-in wouldn’t have revealed her to be such a fucking madwoman.

As it was, he had just thrown her out of a pub, so there was that.

“What are you doing here? What did you see?” he said, running an aggravated hand through his already mused hair as his eyes swept up and down the busy street.

Harry’s other hand was still clasped tightly around her arm. She wrenched herself from his grip, and finally, he turned to look at her.

“Nice to see you, too,” she said, unable to suppress the sarcasm lacing her tongue. She tucked her gloved hands into the crooks of her elbows because bloody _hell_ it was cold out here, and glared up at him.  “What’s it been? Eight years now? Proper greeting, that.”

Harry had the decency to look sheepish. He dropped his hand from his hair to rub the back of his neck. “Right. Sorry. I- how are you?”

“I was fine a second ago,” she said, and momentarily glanced up at the sign above them. “But then you kicked me out of the Leaky Cauldron. I was hoping to thaw out my miserable, frozen heart, you see.”

Her “miserable, frozen heart” (deemed so in the last letter she’d received from her brother Bill when she’d decided to forgo Christmas at the Burrow for the third consecutive year) was also ballooning at the sight of Harry, filling up her chest and reminding her of things she’d rather not think of. She had to cut this short, move on with her life as she’d been doing just minutes previous. Harry, as beautiful as she remembered, all wild hair and radiant green eyes, was forcing her brain to extract too many repressed feelings, far too quickly.

He gave her a quizzical look, then said, bless him, “Er, it’s closed.”

“Closed?” Ginny said skeptically. She’d barely gotten to glance around, and there had been an awful lot of lurid purple smoke lingering in the air, but the general din she’d been immersed in was enough to dismiss his lie. “It sounded to me like the pub was packed. And why else would the door be open, anyway?”

“It’s-we’re having a meeting,” he explained after a brief pause. “No outsiders allowed. Sorry.”

As he fidgeted under her hard stare, Ginny came to notice what he was wearing; scarlet robes with three buckles stretched over his chest, heavily scuffed working boots, and a thick, black cloak. What the hell kind of meeting was he going to in such a garb? Harry looked as if he’d just walked out of a sci-fi novel.

And it dawned on her. “Oh my god.”

She burst into unrestrained laughter. It would prove her theory correct as to why he’d pulled her out of that pub borderline frantic and terrified. Of course, _of course,_ he’d have such a ridiculous hobby. Blimey, what a perfect fool.

“Please tell me Ron’s in there,” she said through her hysterics. “Please tell me he role-plays, too.”

Harry blinked owlishly, and she doubled-over, unable to contain herself.

“Ron’s running an errand with Hermione,” Harry said when Ginny managed to suppress her laughter into giggles and stand up straight to face him again. “I dunno what you mean by role-play, though.”

“Good one,” she said, waving away his mock-confusion. “Star Wars, right?”

Harry gaped at her like a fish out of water, eyebrows knitted together. He held up his hand, surely to argue this hilarious revelation she’d come to.

“Look,” she went on, hoping to mollify him, “you don’t have to lie to me. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. LARPing seems like fun! And your costume is really well done. I like that you went with red. You’re like a standout Jedi.”

There was a beat of silence, and a car rushing past them. The bottom of Harry’s cloak flapped with the burst of air.

He slowly began to nod. “Yeah, yeah, uh, thanks.”

“Can I really not go in?” she said, stomping her feet to get some feeling back into them. “It’s freezing out here.”

Harry jerked as if physically assaulted and whipped off his cloak in one sure motion. He draped it over her shoulders without preamble, and when she started to protest, he said, “No, don’t. It’s all right. I brought you out here. Are you… er, do you want lunch?”

Ginny tried not to sound tongue-tied as the heat of his cloak and the smell of him washed over her. She tugged the cloak more firmly around herself. It was so long that the hem pooled over her feet, and she hitched it up, not wanting to get it filthy.

“Well, yes, but… the other Jedi- Jedis? They’re waiting for you, aren’t they?”

“It’s fine. They can get on without me.”

The remnants of her eleven year old self began to cheer before Ginny could stuff her back into the deepest recess of her mind, and she strained to push away the swift elation that gushed into her chest cavity. But then Harry smiled at her, and she was bowled right the fuck over.

“Okay,” she said.


	2. Chapter 1: Elastic Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sick of editing this. Have at it. Please review or contact me on Tumblr (I’m mardy-bummm) with any questions, comments, or concerns.

**PART I (Ginny)**

Ginny was old enough and smart enough to classify herself under the broad term of _bitter_. It probably (most definitely) had to do with being cast out of her home at the age of twelve, brain still muddled and fuzzy from an accident she had apparently been coerced into causing. Her whole life up until that point had been the sound of grating metal, water hissing on heat, flashing lights behind her eyelids, and shouting, screeching. She’d begun at the end, pulled from deep darkness, body cold and stiff and aching, into evergreen warmth, _life_.

Being sent off to Brighton to stay with her mother’s distant cousin hadn’t been terrible; she was right on the sea, and her walks to and from school introduced her to briny air that soothed her scattered nerves better than any cup of chamomile tea ever could. It also helped to restore several memories, mostly embarrassing ones she would’ve rather left behind, like the time she stuffed her elbow in the butter dish in front of Harry, or the night Hermione ignored her in favor of reading a book under a duvet.

Ginny spent a handful of days at the Burrow with her family, a few days during summer holiday here, a Christmas break there. Such visits should have been beneficial, someway, somehow, but she was always held at a proverbial arm’s length, regarded warily by her parents, whispered about behind closed doors. She never quite _belonged_ , felt like an extension of herself when she was around them. Even so, she loved them with everything she had.

And then her sixteenth birthday came and went without a single present, card, letter, or call. Nothing had ever been so hurtful. They’d forgotten her, and yet _she_ was the “miserable, frozen” one.

What a joke.

So, when Harry said, “Your family misses you, by the way,” she huffed out a skeptical breath.

“Right, and I’m the Queen of England.”

“I mean it. You should contact them.”

Ginny turned to look at him as they approached Cranbourn Street. He had both hands stuffed in his robes pockets, and he was looking at her with something akin to pity in his eyes. She had the sudden urge to throw his cloak in his face and get as far away from him as possible. This extended lunchbreak she’d requested was pointless; she should’ve never agreed to attend that stupid New Year’s Eve office party. She hadn’t even found a dress, and now she was arguing with this man from her past, who she’d dreamt of for years and years after last catching a glimpse of him at the age of eleven.

“Exactly who are you to tell me what to do with my life?” she demanded, coming to a complete stop now. Her fingers clenched around the opening of his cloak, hands shaking from a sudden burst of anger.

Several passersby quickened their steps to get around them. Harry grimaced at their retreating backs.

He could not seem to meet her eyes now. “I care about your family. They’ve been nothing but good to me.”

“Lucky you,” she said coolly, removing his cloak and shoving it at him. He just barely caught it in his arms. “Fuck off, and forget you ever saw me.”

And she thought that was the end of it as she walked away from him, head held high. Tears were blurring her vision but whatever. She was fine. Perfectly fine… even though every therapist she’d thrown money at told her quite the opposite. But not a minute later, Harry was grabbing her arm again, pulling her out of foot traffic and up against a storefront.

“I’m sorry,” he said, ducking his head to look at her as she stared down at her worn winter boots. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” she stubbornly replied to her feet.

“You’re crying.”

“Clearly, I have something in my eyes,” she said defiantly, her voice warbling traitorously.

Harry’s tone was laced with amusement. “You know, I didn’t peg you as absurd.”

“You don’t know me at all, so,” was her absurd reply.

“Not anymore.”

She glared at him, bugger her tearstained, blotchy cheeks. “Never, actually.”

“You were shy, but Ron told me you never stopped talking.”

A reluctant laugh bubbled out of her mouth, and she rubbed roughly at her cheeks with the backs of her gloved hands. “The next time you see Ron, tell him to wash out his filthy, lying mouth.”

“Come to lunch with me,” Harry said.

She leaned back, resting her head on the brick wall, and felt her hair catch on the jagged surface.

“Why?” she said.

“Because… I owe you.”

“If this is about throwing me out of that pub-”

“You saved my life.”

Ginny’s breath caught in her throat.

She’d been told, of course, that Harry had been a part of the accident, and that Ron had been there, too, but details were scarcely provided, and Ginny had automatically concluded that her head injury and subsequent amnesia were from a horrible car crash she’d been in, that she’d caused.

“Rumor has it that you saved mine,” she said, watching him through the corner of her eye.

He waved one hand airily, the other still clutching at his crumpled cloak. “Technicalities.”

She hadn’t written her family since she’d moved flats last month, hadn’t wanted them to find her, at least for a little while. She knew, of course, that Harry was trying to cajole her to lunch under the pretense of keeping her in one place long enough to call her family over or getting her to open up and reveal her new address to him, but maybe she could use him, instead. And get a free meal of it, too.  

“I’ll go to lunch with you,” she said. “But only if you pay.”

“Of course, I’ll pay,” Harry said, sounding on the verge of outraged.

“And only if you tell me what happened.”

Instantly, without having to explain herself, Harry knew exactly what she was talking about. His face clouded over, and his lips pulled into a frown.

“That’s not fair, you know I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Ginny-”

“You don’t have to tell me everything.”

She stared him down, and for a moment, it seemed like Harry was going to walk away from her, turning his back to her as he stared out over the street. But then he pivoted to face her, and his mouth was drawn in a thin line.

“Fine. All right. What do you want to know?”

**PART II (Harry)**

It was extraordinarily fortunate that he’d walked into the Leaky Cauldron from Diagon Alley just as _she’d_ stepped into the Leaky Cauldron off Charing Cross Road.

From what he’d gathered over the years- and he’d kept his ears very much open to any mention of her- Ginny had been living her life as a Muggle after the incident in the Chamber robbed her of her memories, of her magic. He’d been full of guilt about it since it’d happened, no matter what anyone said to him regarding the matter. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had not blamed him, and her brothers had called him an idiot, reminded him several times over that she was alive because of him. But he’d said it then, and he’d say it a thousand times over, especially now that the war was over: she had saved him, not the other way around.

If she hadn’t had Riddle’s diary in her possession, he’d still be hunting for one last horcrux with absolutely nothing to go on.

Just the thought made him feel sick.

And now she sat before him, unaware of his near-decade inner turmoil, asking him to tell her the truth. He owed it to her, of that he was sure, but she’d been sent away for more reasons than one.

“Tell me how it started,” she said, all settled at a little table by the window, her bright blue coat and multi-colored scarf draped over the chair beside her. She’d piled her hair into a messy bun on the very top of her head while he’d gone up to order and pay for their meals, and her slender neck was on display, captivating him in a way that was completely unexpected.

Ginny had always been cute- he’d seen her age gracefully in the yearly school pictures Mrs. Weasley kept over the large fireplace mantle- but seeing her today had thrown him for a loop. In the dim pub, she’d stood out like a beacon, and against the dreary London backdrop, she was positively aflame, all blazing eyes and fiery hair as she chewed him out for pulling her so unceremoniously out of the Leaky Cauldron.

Something within him pulled and pushed and struggled for control, and Harry forced himself to concentrate on the bubbles bursting along the top of his Coke bottle.

“What do you remember?”

“A voice, mostly,” she said.

He started, gazed over at her with his mouth slightly unhinged.

_She couldn’t mean…_

“What kind of voice?” he said, trying to remain impassive even though the hairs on the back of his neck came to stand on end and dread flooded the pit of his stomach.

She shrugged, looking quite uncomfortable as she twirled the straw stuck in her lemonade. “Older, kind of soft. Telling me to ‘do it’ _,_ whatever that means.”

A wave of cold washed over him, and it had nothing to do with having shucked off his cloak and robes upon their entrance into the Fish and Chipper.

“Is that… is that all?”

She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, glancing away from him and then back again, and tucked a non-existent strand of hair behind her ear.

_A habit, then_ , he thought, following the trail of her hand as it curled around the length of her jaw.

“I remember sort of… crunching sounds? Bangs and crashes and… this weird hissing, like water on hot metal maybe?”

Harry stared at her beautiful face, pale in the recollection of her traumatic experience, but in his mind’s eye he saw the battle between himself and Riddle play out as if it were yesterday, felt the skeletons of the Basilisk’s meals cracking beneath his feet, heard the serpent’s tail slapping against stone like clapping thunder, and Parseltongue, the language he’d lost upon Voldemort’s death, rang in his ears.

“I was in a car crash, right?”

Her voice sounded far off. Harry shook off the vestiges of their unkind past and focused on her doe-like brown eyes.

“Yes,” he heard himself say.

It was a very logical, Muggle explanation, and he hated himself for agreeing with her, for lying to her.

“How? Why?”

“It was Tom.”

“ _Who_?”

“Tom Riddle. He… he was an older student, and he manipulated you. Because you were lonely.”

Ginny sat back in her chair, looking ill, petrified. They descended into a deep silence as their server made an appearance, dropping off two baskets of freshly fried fish and chips and a stack of napkins on the way to another table. They made no move to touch their food.

“My parents told me- told me someone had died, that you and multiple people were hurt, that it wasn’t my fault,” she whispered. “But how could it not have been? I agreed to whatever he’d suggested. It was me-”

Harry reached across the table, nearly knocking over the malt vinegar. He wasn’t sure what overcame him, why he hadn’t even hesitated in comforting her in what felt like such an intimate way, but he took her hands in his own, small and soft and cold, and vehemently shook his head.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Of course, it was-”

“Ginny,” he said, voice hard, and squeezed her fingers. “Don’t be stupid.”

 “Look, I can’t help it,” she said.

Harry found himself very nearly laughing, and she smiled at him in a gentle yet sad way that made his heart ache. When it came time to let go of her hands, he found himself regretfully untangling his fingers from hers.

She did not ask any more from him. Instead, she opened up to him, trusted him enough to tell him about her job writing for the sports section of a small newspaper, where she was one of two women in the whole department. She painted a mental picture for him of the flat she’d recently moved into: small, bare living room with a telly sat atop a cardboard box, a kitchen with nigh five feet of white cabinetry, and a bedroom with a shoddy view of the London skyline. Also, he learned that she was saving up to buy a cat, even though she’d killed two succulents in the past month alone.

“Does that make me a bad person,” she said, looking gravely concerned as she added another glob of ketchup beside her chips, “wanting a living, breathing animal when I can barely take care of a fucking cactus?”

“I wouldn’t know. I was never much of a herbologist.”

“You mean botanist?”

Harry paused with a bite of food hovering before his mouth. “Er, yeah. That.”

They chattered away for a while, and he tried to keep his answers to her questions short and to the point: he lived in London with Ron and Hermione; he worked in law enforcement; yes, he liked it well enough, though the paperwork was a nightmare; no, he hadn’t seen The Lord of the Rings film yet (this drew a horrified gasp out of her).

It was when he’d finished eating and was taking a pull from his drink that Ginny, tearing at her last strip of battered cod, divulged nonchalantly, “I’m thinking about taking flying lessons.”

He almost sprayed her with his cola.

“What?” he choked.

“Flying lessons,” she reiterated, handing him a napkin. “What, you think I can’t fly an aircraft?”

“No, no. Of course you can,” Harry said, mopping at his chin. “You just surprised me, is all.”

“I’ve always wanted to fly. My dad would be so thrilled. Can you imagine?”

Harry took the opportunity. “He’s always reading about planes. Maybe you could talk to him about it.”

“Maybe,” she said, and turned to stare out the window.

He smiled to himself, triumphant.

Soon, they were pulling on their winter garb. Harry was very aware of the stares he received upon donning his robes and cloak; he had to get out of Muggle London soon, and back to work, too, before he was missed. Ginny seemed a little antsy, as well, as she peered at her wristwatch and grimaced.

“This was nice,” she said when they stepped outside, her breath fogging the air between them, “catching up.”

The thought of breathing the air that had once been in her very lungs left him feeling lightheaded, and dumbly, Harry wondered what to do with his hands. He must look very stupid, standing there. How did one normally stand?

“But I’m really, really late now,” she finished.

“Me too.”

She paused, glanced up at him, bit her lip. “Do you want to, I dunno, do this again sometime?”

Harry’s heart stuttered to a stop, then kickstarted and _ran_.

“Again?” he blurted in surprise, and instantly felt the need to strangle himself for sounding like a prick.

“Oh, um, that’s all right, then, if you’d rather not-”

“No, I do,” he said hurriedly. His right hand had a mind of its own and jumped to land gently on her arm. He reeled it back quickly, as if she’d burned him. “Um, when are you free?”

Ginny’s cheeks looked pink as she rooted in her purse. “Here,” she said, and took out a biro and a notepad. She scribbled on it and ripped a page out. “Here. My number.”

“Oh,” he said. He took the piece of paper and stared at it.

When Harry looked up at Ginny again, she was running a hand through her hair, trying to tame the windblown locks. He wished she’d stop. She looked perfectly ruffled.

“Just, call me?” she said, taking a few backwards steps. “Whenever. I mean, after six is preferable. Work and all.”

“Yeah, definitely.”

Harry’s mind was going a mile a minute, and one of the many thoughts that continuously hurled itself against the forefront of his brain was _where the hell am I going to call her from?_ But everything went hazy when Ginny decided to throw herself into his arms and hug him.

She pulled away, and he stood there with his arms outstretched, paralyzed.

“And can you maybe do me a huge favor?” she said, her hand in her hair again.

He barely managed a nod.

“Don’t tell my family you’ve seen me.”

.

.

.

.

_“And I know that I can survive,  
I walked through fire to save my life.”_

_Elastic heart- Sia_


	3. Chapter 2: Salt

**CHAPTER 2: SALT**

**PART I (Ginny)**

When Ginny arrived at her pitch black flat, she grappled with the light switch, the front door opened wide for easy escape. Only after the living room’s ceiling light illuminated did she fully enter, eyes darting around for any sign of movement. Something could be hiding in the shadows…

She’d been terrified of the dark since the accident. Since the car crash. Since Tom Riddle.

_Oh, Christ. Oh, God. Oh,… Merlin_ , she thought wildly, slamming the door shut and throwing every lock into place. She ripped off her coat, pawed at her constricting scarf, and took huge gulps of air.

Finally, _finally_. Something was happening. His name was a trigger, a burst, a crack of lightning igniting hundreds upon thousands of nerve endings and neurons so that little pieces of her memories were reconstructing. She was nauseous, dizzy, and a headache like never before hammered at her temples as she began to remember a different darkness now, of being swathed in hellish green. Had it happened in a badly lit garage or car park, maybe? And the dripping, dripping, dripping, right beside her. What _was_ that? And the hissing? It no longer sounded quite like rain on steaming pavement or burning metal...

And then there was Tom. She paused midway to the kitchen as the image of him flared in her mind’s eye. He was handsome, but cold, and ghostly white, as if behind some kind of veil…

She dropped her bag, her keys, and tried to shake the vision, but again and again it resurfaced. She stumbled half-blind around her apartment, feeling sick, disoriented. Riddle’s ghost followed her, flickering in and out of focus, smirking at her the entire time. What a joke her brain decided to play. What a nightmare.

This must have been why they’d sent her away. Had her parents told her what had happened? Had she gone mad with the knowledge of it? It would make some amount of sense, because now she felt the impression of starch sheets wrapped tightly around her legs, smelled strong antiseptic.

She staggered to the bathroom and vomited in the sink.

_Sink, sink, sink. I could slide down the sink._

She heard herself laugh deliriously. It echoed back, high-pitched and not her own. Her insides froze. Again, she struggled to take a substantial breath.

She threw herself into her bath fully dressed, tipped the knobs on, and was immediately sprayed by ice water. She shrieked and spluttered but did not move away. The incessant whirling of her brain was quick to focus on the uncomfortable cold seeping through her jumper and onto her skin.

Ginny hadn’t had a minute of peace since she’d walked away from Harry’s calming aura just three hours ago. Work was slow and torturous as memory after memory pounded away at her, making little to no sense, jumbled up as they were. She’d tried to divert her attention hundreds of times, but ended up spilling two cups of coffee, hers and a colleague’s- how she hadn’t burned herself was still beyond comprehension- when a vision of Harry, covered in blood and mud and grime, materialized in the forefront of her mind. After that, she’d given up hope.

Why hadn’t she asked for Harry’s number when she’d given him hers? She had so much to ask him, so much to say. He’d been so nice to her, listened to her intently, promised not to seek out her family, family that had been kinder to him than to her. And now she was alone in her flat, fighting off a panic attack. Why was she always alone?

_Because no one likes you, little girl_ , a voice whispered from the depths of her mind.

Ginny choked on a sob.

Sometime later, she walked out of the bathroom wrapped in a threadbare towel, leaving her clothes draped over the shower curtain rod, heavy and waterlogged. Her feet dragged, her arms hung limp from her shoulders, and her head was fit to explode. She turned on the overhead light of her bedroom, then the tiny lamp with a fringed shade that sat upon her wobbly nightstand, and collapsed into bed.

Shivering against the chilly sheets, Ginny shut her eyes and was instantly transported back in time, where she was immersed in darkness and there was a strange _something_ ebbing further and further away from her. She reached out for it, wanting it desperately, but her heartbeat was slowing, pulse weakening, and the fight she’d wrought was dying. _She_ was dying.

There was an explosion of light, and Ginny sat up in bed with a gasp and the image of a great, scaly monster with bloodied eyes burned into her retinas.

The sound of her phone ringing from the living room streamed into her consciousness, and Ginny tripped out of bed, heart in her throat because she knew exactly who was calling. She searched for the mobile, saw it glowing through the thin fabric of her purse, and fell to her knees to wrestle it out of the bag.

“Hello?” she said, clinging the phone to her face.

“Ginny?”

Relief swept through her very bones at the sound of Harry’s voice, and she pressed her back against the entryway to the kitchen, resisting the urge to cry. It was dark here, and the faucet was leaking… She hovered between the present and past.

“You called me,” she said, concentrating hard on the light switch just feet away.

“I said I would,” he responded.

There was an irrepressible tug up at the corners of her mouth, and a warm, fluttery feeling beneath her ribcage. Ginny tucked the mobile between her shoulder and ear, freeing the hand that wasn’t clutching at her uncomfortably damp towel. She hadn’t had such a good excuse in a long time.

Without looking at it, without touching it, Ginny waved her hand sharply...

The light switch flickered up, and the kitchen lit up in fluorescence.

“Good. I’ve got a few questions.”

**PART II (Harry)**

He got no more than a raised eyebrow from Ron when he raced into the Auror office twenty minutes late from lunch, and an “alright?” was his acknowledgment when Harry arrived at Grimmauld just before 7 rather than minutes past 5 o’clock.

Hermione was not so easy to bypass.

“Where were you today?” she said as they gathered in the basement kitchen for dinner.

“Hi to you, too,” Harry said, hoping the new mobile phone he’d purchased roughly an hour ago was completely shut off. If his pocket started ringing, he’d be in for it.

Hermione shook her head. “Sorry, it’s just… Ron said-”

“Mentioned in brief passing!” Ron interjected, throwing him an apologetic grimace.

“-that you were late coming back from lunch. Is everything okay?”

“Great,” Harry said. “How was the fitting?”

“I know what you’re doing,” Hermione said at once, gimlet-eyed as she helped herself to a generous heap of shepherd’s pie. “But… if you must know, it went _amazing_. Better than last time! The sleeves were actually cuffed correctly, and the bodice…”

Harry zoned out and thought instead about Ginny and how relieved she sounded when he’d phoned her less than an hour ago. They were meeting at her flat tomorrow evening upon her insistence, promising her that he would not seek out her parents and divulge her location to them when she provided him with her address. She’d asked it of him so desperately that the stab of guilt at keeping her a secret was negligible; he found himself unable to deny her.

Since the moment he’d laid eyes on her earlier that afternoon, convincing her to come around, to reconnect with the Weasleys and bring them light after so much darkness was at the forefront of Harry’s mind. It was going to be tricky. Ginny did not seem the type to be easily cajoled. But he held himself accountable for the torn family, and he owed them so much. He _wanted_ this for them. And if it took him a day, a week, or a century to bring together such a family reunion, so be it.

**PART III (Ginny)**

A sleepless, dizzying night. An unproductive, migraine-encumbered workday. Ginny was spent by the time she arrived home, more than ready to collapse into bed and never get up again. But Harry was coming over, so she forced herself to move, and did so sluggishly, with the sky like black treacle behind her gauzy curtains.

_He’ll be here soon._

She went about picking up shoes, wayward articles of clothing, tidying her awful, threadbare couch and dusting her bookshelf. She started a pot of water to boil instantly, just with a twitch of her fingers, and stared through the steam, wondering when she’d gotten so comfortable doing this… whatever this was.

Things tended to move for her when she wanted them to. The first time it had happened, she’d just been sent off to live with Matilda, and her mug of tea, sat on her nightstand, jumped several inches over into her outstretched fingertips. She had screamed then, but now it was almost second nature; flipping switches from across the room, heating food just by willing it, summoning the television remote to float into her beckoning hand. Ginny liked to blame it on her animal magnetism ( _ha!_ ) because she thought she was clever, but she always figured the car crash was the turning point. Maybe she’d been injected with metals and magnets by the doctors who had seen to her after the accident. Maybe she was an experiment gone wrong. Maybe she was a monster, and had killed a man, a man named Tom Riddle, because he’d taken advantage of her, a foolish, lonely child.

_Crack!_

A car backfired just outside her building, and Ginny jumped and accidentally dumped an entire box of dried spaghetti into the water merrily boiling away of its own accord. She grimaced, added a generous dash of salt to the pot, and hurried to her door to peer through the spyhole.

A minute later, Harry’s form obscured her view, and before he could even raise his hand to knock, Ginny swung the door open and managed not to throw herself at him like a common hussy.

Sometimes she surprised even herself.

“Hi,” she said breathlessly.

Harry stood before her dressed in dark wash jeans, a thick cable knit jumper, and black coat.

Correction: Harry stood before her, looking to be fucking devoured.

“Alright?” he said, slanting a smile at her.

_Now, yes._

She swallowed her words, nodded, and stood aside for him to enter, only just realizing that she hadn’t changed from her usual Friday work attire of faded, company logoed shirt and plain denim trousers, that she probably smelled of old coffee and ink, that her hair must have looked like a ragged mess, piled as it was in a messy bun held up by a single pencil.

Heart sunk, she led him through the small, near freezing sitting room, grateful for its semi-darkness as her cheeks heated in embarrassment, and into the kitchen, where she took a deep breath in hopes of soothing the sick feeling that had been blooming in the pit of her stomach since yesterday.

Once she needlessly checked on the spaghetti, and felt her blush mostly recede, Ginny turned to Harry.

“I can hang your coat. And you can take off your shoes, if you want. Make yourself comfortable.”

Harry shrugged off his coat and handed it off to her, and she scurried to the hall closet to put it up. She opened it quickly, hoping for the best… but an old football rolled out and a stack of books came tumbling onto her sock clad feet. Ginny gritted her teeth, hissing at the sting of pain.

What a disaster.

She set everything right as speedily as she could, and when she walked back into the kitchen, Harry was standing in the middle of the room, holding a bottle of wine by the neck and staring quizzically at the stove.

“I don’t drink,” she announced upon her entrance.

Harry whipped around to look at her. “What?”

She nodded towards the bottle. “Wine. Or anything alcoholic. I never fancied the idea of losing control of myself, you know?”

“Right,” Harry said. He placed the bottle down on the Formica countertop. “That makes sense. It was Hermione’s idea, anyway, not-”

Dread spread through her chest like a spilled ink bottle. Ginny pressed a hand to her heart as it began a quick staccato against her ribcage.

“Hermione? You didn’t tell her about me, did you?”

“I haven’t told anyone anything,” he said hurriedly, taking a step towards her, worry marring his face. “Hermione thought… she thought I was meeting up with a girl.”

She managed to glare at him. “What the fuck am I then?”

Harry blanched. “I know you’re a girl. I just meant, you know…”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, feeling only marginally better now that Harry had confirmed he hadn’t revealed her to her family, albeit worse, too, since he had inadvertently ripped open a metaphorical cut that’d healed over long ago, and rubbed salt all over it like he was _born_ for it. “I get it.”

“Sorry,” he said quietly.

“Don’t be.”

“You’re very pretty.”

Suddenly, it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the flat.

Ginny stared at him. His cheeks were ruddy. “Excuse me?”

“Is something wrong with your stove?”

Thrown by the subject change, Ginny said, “I- _what_?”

“Your stove. It’s not on, but the water’s been boiling all this time.”

.

.

.

.

_“Who, who can I look to?_ __  
‘Cause I'm not like you, you.  
And I don't believe in the truth, truth,  
‘Cause all of my life's built on lies.”

_Salt- Bad Suns_


	4. Chapter 3: Snap Out of It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry this took so long to update! I’ve had this chapter done for a couple of months now, but I didn’t want to post until I was done with chapter 4, and also I had a very, very busy July. So here’s an update, just in time for Ginny’s birthday!

**PART I (Harry)**

If it hadn’t been Ginny he was meeting, his _best mate’s estranged sister_ , he would’ve been much less apprehensive about this. He had to psych himself up about it all day, in fact, and only managed to force his excuse out a few minutes before the end of the work day.

“I won’t be home for dinner tonight.”

Harry had held his breath when he’d said it, and now it came _whooshing_ out of him in relief. There. It was done. He’d projected it out into the universe; he was going, and there was no backing out.

Ron didn’t even look up from packing his scuffed briefcase and said, “Have you figured out what you’re going to tell Hermione?”

“It’s none of her business, honestly.”

Ron let out a bark of a laugh. “Obviously. Won’t stop her from asking where you’re going and who you’re going with.”

“I was hoping you could tell her.”

“Tell her what, exactly?”

“That I’m going out.”

Ron gave him a disbelieving look over the waist-high cubicle wall separating the two of them.

“You’re stopping by Grimmauld beforehand, yeah?”

Harry nodded. “I’ve got to change.”

“Well, better make it quick. I can only hold her off for so long.”

And Harry was quick, quicker than he would have liked, shaving so fast that he nicked his chin twice, sprinting out of the shower and almost slipping and killing himself on the rim of the tub. But then he dallied in front of his wardrobe in search of a button-down just a few minutes too long…

It was then that Hermione pounced.

“Ron says you’re leaving.”

Harry shot a look over his shoulder and saw Ron tapping his wristwatch behind Hermione’s back with an _I-told-you-so_ expression upon his face.

“That’s right.”

“Are you going to tell us who she is?”

“How d’you know I’m meeting anyone at all?”

“You’re being awfully defensive. And you’re staring at your wardrobe.”

Harry picked out a rarely used black checkered shirt and put it on. “Are you sure you don’t want a transfer to the investigation department?”

“Stop deflecting. Where’d you meet her? What’s her name? Do we know her?”

“Does it matter?” he said roughly.

“Yes, if you’re seeing her. We’re your best friends. Ron and I should meet her. Right?” She turned to her fiancé for support.

“Maybe we should wait and see if she can tolerate him first,” said Ron, leaning against the doorjamb, smirking.

“Thanks, mate,” Harry said, not nearly as stung as he probably ought to be.

“Well?” Hermione whirled back around, arms akimbo, not letting the matter drop for a second.

Harry grabbed at his favorite jumper and said once he pulled it into place, “I’m not sure if you’re actually worried about me, or just being nosy-”

“I’m not nosy!”

“-but I’ll be fine. And butt out.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open, scandalized.

She turned to Ron again. “Aren’t you going to say something to him?”

Ron looked like he desperately wanted to laugh. “Yeah,” he said, and glanced over Hermione’s shoulder at Harry, “have fun.”

**PART II (Harry)**

She was pale and had a hint of makeup smudged beneath her eyes, but she looked stunning when she smiled at him, her eyes crinkled up at the corners, like she was genuinely happy to see him. And he’s happy to see her, nervousness aside. Every time he thought about tonight, about seeing her again, what felt like dozens of snitches took flight in his stomach. Now that he was here, he reminded himself to _calm the hell down_.

She shuffled her feet as she lead him through her cold, little flat and into the brightly lit kitchen, and when she left him, taking his coat along with her, he stood anxiously in the center of the room, passing the bottle of wine Hermione had forced on him before he left Grimmauld from one hand to the other.

There was something not quite right about all of this, about Ginny, about her memory and subsequent loss of magic. He’d never gotten the whole story from Ron or his brothers, or Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Harry only knew that following the ordeal of the Chamber of Secrets, Ginny had been taken to St. Mungo’s and returned a shell of her old self, unable to perform magic, unable to recall her past, her family, her friends. They’d been told, per Healer’s orders, not to regale her with information she should know, but to let her come to it on her own.

Ginny remembered more than she’d let on to her family, of that he was sure, but her brain was jumping through hoops to make sense of it all; she thought she’d been in a car crash, after all. And the fact she’d gotten past the Muggle-repelling charms that drenched the front door of the Leaky Cauldron- that had to amount to something, didn’t it?

He took in her tiny kitchen, all white save for a splash of color here and there: three turquoise canisters, a spoon rest that resembled a red and white-spotted mushroom, the violet pot on the stovetop. He took a step closer to it, noticed the burner the pot sat upon wasn’t lit, and stared into the bubbling water.

“I don’t drink.”

With a start, Harry turned to look at Ginny. “What?” he said.

She tipped her head, staring pointedly at his hands. Harry looked down at the wine bottle dumbly.

“Wine,” she said. “Or anything alcoholic. I never fancied the idea of losing control of myself, you know?”

The vision of her eleven year old self huddled and sobbing on the stone floor of the Chamber flashed in his mind’s eye.

“Right. That makes sense.” He set the bottle down, and began to explain, “It was Hermione’s idea, anyway, not-”

The little color left in her face drained. “Hermione? You didn’t tell her about me, did you?” she asked frantically, her hand jumping to her chest.

“I haven’t told anyone anything.” He took a cautious step towards her. Ginny looked like she was ready to bolt, or collapse, he wasn’t sure which. He rather she did neither of those things- blimey, he didn’t want imagine the fallout of all of this yet- and hurried to placate her. “Hermione thought… she thought I was meeting up with a girl.”

He knew he’d worded that wrong well before her eyes shot daggers at him.

“What the fuck am I then?”

“I know you’re a girl. I just meant, you know…”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, deflating. “I get it.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

He struggled, gave it his best fight, hoping to contain himself, but then…

“You’re very pretty.”

A beat, maybe two. Ginny’s jaw dropped a fraction, and he could feel his face heating, heating, on _fire_.

“Excuse me?” she said.

Harry gave himself a mental shake. What had he been thinking of, before she’d walked in? What had he wanted to say to her?

The pot on the stove gave a gurgle. _Yes_.

“Is something wrong with your stove?”

“I- _what_?”

“Your stove. It’s not on, but the water’s been boiling all this time…”

Ginny jumped, rushed over to the pot, and grabbed at the corresponding knob. She gave it a full turn and said, “It’s… it’s broken. You have to tinker with it, you see? I’ve complained to the landlady about it. Someone should be over to look at it soon. Tuesday, in fact.”

Harry had heard better lies from Teddy.

As Ginny set about straining the pasta at the sink, he glanced over at the stove again, reached over behind her back, and flipped the knob on high. The swirling grate of the electric burner was blossoming orange just as Ginny turned back around.

“Oh,” she said, hesitantly glancing up at him. “Brilliant. You fixed it.”

Harry crossed his arms and leaned back against the kitchen cabinets. “I think it was fine all along.”

Ginny dropped the pot on the heated burner and switched the knob off. Her hands were shaking. She was shaking. If he didn’t back off now, she’d completely withdraw, and Harry needed to know what the hell was going _on_ here.

“Dinner, right? We were going to have dinner, maybe watch a film? After you tell me more about Lord Riddle.”

Harry froze. Ginny turned towards him, face skewed in puzzlement.

“Why did I say ‘Lord’? I meant-”

“No,” said Harry quietly. “No, you’re right.”

“What?”

“Lord Voldemort. It’s what Riddle liked to call himself.”

Ginny pressed a hand to her forehead, and the small wince she tried to hide left him worried. Clearly, the memories infiltrating her mind were causing her pain. Harry began cracking his knuckles for something to do.

“Lord Voldemort?” she said slowly, testing the name out.

“Yes.”

“What the fuck kind of name is that?”

He expelled a breath of laughter. “A terrible one.”

“It sounds like a swear.”

“It’s an anagram.”

She gave him an incredulous look, still rubbing her head with a cupped hand. “You’re taking the mickey.”

Ginny withdrew a tiny, decorative notebook and pen from the drawer by his hip and handed it to him wordlessly. As he wrote out Riddle’s full name and “I am Lord Voldemort” beneath it, Ginny began fixing two bowls of spaghetti, drenching the noodles with a jar of tomato sauce and pre-shredded mozzarella. He handed it to her when she was finished, their hands grazing. Harry tried to not think about the sparks he felt dance down his fingertips, or the way Ginny briefly halted, as if scared to move.

She took the notepad carefully, her eyes darting up to meet his, then back down.

“This is ridiculous,” she said after a glance. She threw the notebook down, her lips curled in disgust. “What a twat.”

“That’s one word for him,” Harry heartily agreed.

“He wasn’t actually a Lord though, was he?”

“No.”

“That’s a relief.”

Ginny reached for an overhead cabinet, tiptoeing up to seize two tall, crystal glasses. Her shirt rose and exposed the small of her back, and Harry looked away quickly.

“You can drink the wine, if you want. I’ve also got Coke and water.”

“Whatever you’re having is fine,” he said.

She poured them both some of the fizzy drink and went over to a small nook by the refrigerator. “There’s a folding table here, can you pull it out?”

It was a little outdoor bistro set, with slats and banged up corners, but their cups and bowls fit on the table top just fine, though Harry and Ginny were very close together. So close, in fact, that Harry had to apologize for bumping up against her foot more than once.

“So, I take it you remember the accident now?” Harry started after a few minutes of silence, in which he hungrily dug into his meal. “Or some of it?”

Ginny nodded, idly twirling spaghetti around her fork. “Some of it,” she repeated, lifting her eyes to meet his. “Except… except it feels like something is missing.”

Harry knew immediately what she was missing without her having to say another word: _magic_. She must have had some mental block up, keeping her from her past, from herself. But then he thought about the self-boiling pot of water, and he wondered exactly what was going on with her, how she was making sense of everything, so disjointed as she was. She was living like a Muggle but toeing the line that would drop her so readily into the wizarding world.

“Maybe not saying anything was the wrong approach,” he said carefully.

Ginny sat up straighter. “You’ll help me fill the blanks?”

He hesitated. Everything suddenly felt like a bad idea. “I dunno. All I told you was his name, and you’re…”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m what?”

“How do you feel?” he said instead. “And don’t lie.”

Her eyes roved over his face, buying time.

“Not… not great,” she admitted, dropping her gaze to her lap. “I could barely sleep last night. I’m dead on my feet.” A beat, a laugh. “On my arse.”

“Eat,” he said firmly. “Then we’ll talk, yeah?”

She nodded, a small smile lifting at the corners of her mouth. “Okay.”

**PART III (Ginny)**

When Ginny fell flat on her face in year 10 during a PE exercise, and the boy she’d fancied at the time laughed at her plight, what had come to mind (after a sharp burst of anger and a rather impressive jump-kick to the boy’s stomach) was that damned butter dish, and Harry’s small, kind face, smiling politely at her.

The same memory came to mind now.

She wondered, as she finished her meal and Harry went for seconds, what it would have been like to grow-up alongside him. Being a year ahead, would he have helped her with school work? Or would her brother have kept him to himself? Did he excel at anything? Did he play sport? She barely resisted biting her lip as she looked over his form, bent over the stove, all broad shoulders and trim waist. He’d shucked off his jumper moments ago, and Ginny knew instantly, as his buttoned shirt pulled across his chest, that she couldn’t be the only one who’d _seen_ him…

“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked him as he came back over.

Harry’s bowl thudded hard onto the table, his fork clattering noisily against the ceramic. He sat unsteadily at the edge of his chair.

“I’m sorry. What?”

“Girlfriend. Have you got one?” she asked him again, trying to remain nonchalant.

As she awaited his answer, she wished the tight band around her torso would clear right the fuck off.

“No,” Harry said. “I don’t.”

There was a new, sudden weightlessness beneath her bosom at his statement, but Ginny also found herself indignant. Who wouldn’t want to date Harry Potter? He was perfect. He always had been.

“Why the hell not?”

His eyes scanned her face, and Ginny felt heat rise up her neck at her outraged exclamation. Perhaps she was revealing too much, perhaps Harry could see right through her…

“I dunno,” he finally said, looking down at his food. “No time, I guess.”

She scoffed, settling back in her chair and crossing her arms. “Please. You’d make time, if you were interested in someone.”

The overhead kitchen lights caught on his glasses as he regarded her, making it impossible to read him.

“Yeah, probably.”

Ginny watched as he tucked into his second helping, cheeks pink and discussion seemingly closed. She stood, lips pressed together to keep herself from prying further into his personal life, and took her bowl to the sink. She knew it was rude to leave him alone at the table, but washing the dishes calmed her, and for whatever reason, she was on the verge of being worked up over him. Again.

_Fuck_.

“What about you?” he called over at her.

“What about me?” she said, giving him a sidelong glance over her shoulder.

He had his elbow slung over the back of his chair, his long legs outstretched and angled towards her.

He raised one brow at her. “Boyfriend? Or girlfriend? Anyone?”

She turned her bowl over, rinsing out the dirty soap bubbles. “No one. I don’t think I’ve stayed in one place long enough to be in any sort of relationship.” She barely restrained a laugh. “Besides, no one would be able put up with me. I’m fucked up.”

“You’re not.”

She snorted, turned off the tap. She’d wash the fork later. She had a point to make. “My therapist thinks so. Not in such colorful words, mind.”

“You’ve got a therapist?”

She leaned back against the sink, crossed her ankles, and brushed a thick strand of hair behind her ear.

“Doesn’t everyone?” she answered, momentarily distracted by her pencil updo that had mostly come undone. Ginny pulled the makeshift hair accessory out and almost moaned when some of the tension around the crown of her head dissipated. She threw the pencil aside and ran her fingers through her hair for tangles.

Harry exhaled audibly, unfolded himself from the tiny table and gathered his dishware. He made his way over to her.

“Tell me what you remember about the accident,” he said.

Ginny hesitated. “I think my mind is playing tricks on me.”

He placed his things in the sink and turned to her, his bicep momentarily brushing against hers and sending goosebumps down her arm. “Why do you say that?”

She searched his evergreen eyes and felt reassured in their sincerity to divulge what she’d come to recollect.

“Just… promise not to lock me away in some mental facility when I say that there was definitely a giant snake there.”

.

.

.

.

_“Under a spell you're hypnotized._ __  
Darling, how could you be so blind?  
(Snap out of it)”

Snap Out of It- Arctic Monkeys


	5. Chapter 4: Learn To Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me so much trouble, probably because RL was a bit crap for a while. I'm so happy with the response I've gotten with this story thus far, so even though I've yet to start chapter 5, have at this. You all deserve it. (Just don't expect another chapter from me for a little while.) And of course, per usual, any and all mistakes are my own.

**PART I (Ginny)**

"I shouldn't've lied to you."

The words were a shock to her system, and Ginny reeled back as if slapped. She hadn't expected him to follow up with that; she thought he'd dispel her overactive imagination, tell her she was seeing things that weren't there, that she was going mad. But no, his immediate reaction to what she'd just said only confirmed that a giant snake  _had_  really been there.

A blast of cold flushed through her body, and she stared up at Harry, trembling, terrified. "I don't understand."

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice so low she had to strain to hear him, "but you weren't in a car crash, Ginny."

**PART II (Harry)**

Harry had a hard time looking into her pale face directly. He'd betrayed her, and it made him feel sick,  _dirty_. This whole thing had gone on long enough now; he had to end this to save her, to right her, fix her, make her whole again. She was confused, and frightened, and she deserved the truth. She always had.

"Maybe we should sit down," he suggested when he could bear her silence no longer.

Ginny was faraway in her head and visibly started at his words. She led him into her darkened living room, where an icy cold enveloped them upon entrance, and hurried over to the corner where a floor lamp stood. She switched it on, and a soft orange glow lit the space to reveal a box television set and a battered, tweed sofa. In the far corner sat a squat bookcase lined with VHS tapes and decorated with several brightly colored knickknacks… save for the very bottom shelf, which was over-stuffed with leather-bound journals. All of them black.

Harry froze mid-step.

"The radiator in here doesn't really work," Ginny said, waving her arm at the ancient looking space heater by the door. "Sorry, it's-"

"What are those?" He pointed at the journals.

"Oh," Ginny said, sounding frazzled. "It's my collection."

"Your collection?"

She nodded once, carefully tucked herself into the nook of her sofa, and hugged a small, decorative pillow to her middle.

"Any reason for it?" he asked calmly, though every iota of his being was ready to conjure a fire in the middle of the sitting room and throw the lot of diaries in.

She blinked at him. "I dunno. They make me feel…"

"Feel…?"

Ginny ripped a hand through her hair, and said roughly, "Does it matter? I thought we were talking about the accident."

"We are," he said.

Her head tipped slightly.

Harry perched himself on the sofa beside her, and it groaned beneath his weight.

"Where would you like me to start?" he asked.

And Ginny said, "The beginning should do it."

"You're different."

Ginny tensed, the descriptor like an assault on her person. "Different" was just the start. Harry had to ease her into this, couldn't throw the words "magic" and "witch" around lightly. He'd scare her away or throw him out. He needed her to hear him out first.

"Different?" Ginny's tone was biting. "I guess losing my memories at the age of eleven does mark me 'different.'"

He'd offended her.  _Shite_.

"No," he said quickly. "No, you don't understand. I'm different, too."

"Yeah, we both had crap childhoods. Ron told me why you'd come over for the summers. Your aunt and uncle- they were horrible to you." She paused. "My parents were…"

"They did the best they could," he said firmly.

"They got rid of me." She looked down at the pillow in her lap and pulled on a loose thread. "Rightly so," she whispered. "I murdered someone, didn't I?"

"You didn't kill Riddle, Ginny."

Ginny's eyes, deep and dark like wishing wells, locked onto his.

Harry took a deep breath. "I killed him."

**PART III (Ginny)**

The arm of the sofa dug uncomfortably into her back. It was about the only thing keeping her grounded. That, and the look in Harry's eyes, reassuring and calming and everything she needed right now.

"I don't understand."

"It's complicated," said Harry.

"I gathered." She bit her lip, unsure if she should ask, if she really wanted to know. "How…?"

"How what?"

"How did you do it?" she asked lowly. "How'd you kill him?"

"A basilisk fang."

"I'm sorry, a  _what_?"

And then he weaved her a fantastical tale about a little girl, who put her trust in an enchanted diary, who became possessed by the power hidden inside it and opened a secret chamber to set free a monstrous snake, and of a little boy, who experienced the worst day of his life that day and came to her rescue when no one else would.

Ginny wished, more than ever, that she could remember, that her memories would come rushing back to her like in the films. But there was nothing, nothing but the same  _drip drip drip_  echoing through her empty head, swaths of hellish green light, and giant reptilian scales.

He was quiet now, watching her with such concern that her heart was aching.

"It's okay," was all she could manage, voice shaking. "I'm okay."

"You believe me?" His voice was hopeful, bright. "You remember now?"

When Harry's eyes shone like that, like starlight, disappointing him was the absolute last thing Ginny wanted to do. But she had to be honest with him, knew now more than ever that she could trust him, tell him everything she'd been through, everything she could  _do_. It was a strange, foreign, even somewhat scary, the idea of allowing Harry in, and yet it felt right, and this sudden weightlessness around her shoulders was too impossible to ignore.

"No one could make something like that up." She reached over to squeeze his large, warm hands, in a fit of bravery, or possibly stupidity. But she was desperate now to feel connected, and grounded, and Harry was that for her, a thousand times over. "But no, I can't remember any of it."

Harry deflated. "I thought maybe…"

"Yeah," said Ginny, and she smiled at him a little sadly. "Me, too."

There was a beat of silence, her neighbor slamming their front door, a car alarm blaring in the distance before being abruptly shut off. She stared down at Harry's fingers, so much longer than her own, and hoped he'd keep rubbing his thumb along her knuckles like that, if just a for little while more.

"What's this all mean?" she said sometime later, after gathering her flying thoughts.

"What's what mean?"

"Everything. The castle, the diary, the snake." She let out a laugh. "The stove top. What's it mean? That we were born with superpowers? Like in X-Men?"

The corner of Harry's mouth twitched. "Yeah," he said, "like in X-Men."

**PART IV (Harry)**

They never did get to the film. Instead, Harry explained (without going into much detail, for he was sure something would go terribly wrong if he did) that Ginny was a witch, that her first year had been a horrifying debacle because of a longstanding grudge between her father and a Death Eater—

"A Death Eater?" Ginny interrupted, wide-eyed and alarmed.

—and a diary that was deliberately planted on her, that was bound with a piece of Tom Riddle's soul.

"A grown man gave me a… what did you call it?"

"A horcrux."

"A horcrux," she repeated. "To what? Kill me?"

"I'm not in anyway defending what Malfoy did," Harry said, "but I don't think he had a clue as to what he was dealing with."

"Still, what a horrible man. He must've known that it was a dangerous item."

"Yeah," Harry said, feeling a flare of white-hot anger ignite in his chest. Lucius Malfoy deserved more than a life-long prison sentence for what he'd done to Ginny, let alone every other crime he'd committed. "He did."

And then she asked, after another moment of silent contemplation, "What about the good?"

"The good?"

"Yeah, the good. What should I be missing right now?"

He was instantly transported back in time, to his eleven year old self, gazing up in wonder at the window displays and carts lining Diagon Alley, of Hogwarts' glittering reflection in the Black Lake. He remembered the feasts, and the freedom of flying, the friendships he'd made there. And then, all at once, he was in the Burrow and engulfed its warmth, smothered with love he had so desperately craved by the most wonderful family he'd ever met.

He looked into Ginny's expectant face and said, "Everything."

**PART V (Ginny)**

It was approaching midnight when Harry finished describing Hogwarts and its many secrets, Diagon Alley's wondrous shops, when he'd explained magic in its lamest of terms and answered all her questions. Ginny was, in some ways, quite elated at finally getting this much deserved enlightenment, but she also felt like a part of her was missing, stranded far away and screaming, unable to be reached.

"I'll take you there, one day," Harry said, breaking her of her thoughts. "When you're ready." He leaned back into the lumpy couch and gave her a sly look. "Once you perfect that wandless magic you've been casting all these years."

"I wonder where it's gone, my wand," she said, falling again into the mist clouding her brain.

Clear as day, Ginny recalled waking up from a nightmare several years ago, right after she'd been placed in Matilda's care, and reaching for something under her pillow, something that was not there, and flying into a blind panic. She felt a hint of that panic now. While she didn't know what to do with a wand, she knew that it was important, that she needed it if she was to breathe easy now…

"Your parents probably have it packed away somewhere."

Ginny grimaced at the mere thought of seeing them again, still unable to believe what they'd kept from her, what they'd put her through.

"Could I just buy another instead?"

Harry hesitated. "I dunno. It might not be as good as the wand that chose you. There's a lot of wandlore around the subject. I could ask Hermione about it, or Ron-"

"No! You can't!" she said, and flew off the couch to pace, knocking over several pillows in the process. "They'll know, and they can't know anything,  _anything_  about this. About me. I don't want anything to do with any one of them."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Harry scrub wearily at his face. "You'll have to face them eventually, Ginny."

"No, I won't."

"You will," said Harry.

Ginny stopped before him, ready to argue her case, face burning in anger, humiliation.

"Listen to me," he said, and his voice was smooth and soothing, almost like a balm. "Your family is old blood, and famous for fighting in both wars. They work in the government, in Diagon, at Gringotts. Some of them volunteer at Hogwarts, and at St. Mungo's. They have eyes and ears everywhere. The second you step into the wizarding world, you'll instantly be recognized as the missing Weasley girl."

Her eyes welled with tears, and she wiped at them impatiently.

_Missing_. She'd been here all along.

"I don't want anything to do with them. They sent me away, kept all of this hidden from me. They didn't contact me until they were burying F-Fred. What kind of people-?"

And then she broke, simultaneously trying to contain her sobs, and tears, and to breathe all at once, failling, as she always did, in not making a fool of herself in front of Harry Potter, who in all his wonderful sweetness, stood up and folded her into his arms and allowed her to cry all over his lovely, soft shirt.

"I'm sorry," he said, when she had mostly gathered herself.

She sniffled against his firm chest, curled her fingers into the fabric of his shirtsleeves.

"Shut-up. You've nothing to be sorry for."

"You're upset."

"I'm always upset." She looked up at him, and her nose bumped his chin. "Anyway, I should be saying sorry. I'm ruining your shirt."

"You're not ruining anything," he said.

He gazed down at her, eyes soft as they roved over her features, and her reflection in his glasses gazed back at her. She looked a pathetic, horrible nightmare, and pulled away from him with a stuttering heart.

Ginny had promised herself that she would never utter the words again, not after last time, when he'd almost fallen over in shock, but she needed him out of her flat. Now.

Besides, she was the last thing he needed.

"We should… you know, do this again sometime."

He looked confused, his arms held out as if she was still in them.

"Not the crying bit," she said, feeling on the verge of being hysterical, in more ways than one. She waved her hands about to give them something to do other than reach back out for Harry. "But the talking. And the eating. It was nice."

It was a clear dismissal. Ginny was not in any frame of mind but fragile, and Harry was making her feel wild. She could not be wild right now, not after everything she'd learned about herself, about her past, about her family. It was too much, too soon. And she was not going to throw this one good thing away on the impulse to kiss him.

God, how she wanted to kiss him.

"Right," said Harry, and with a sudden start, his arms finally fell to his sides. "Yeah. It's late. I should go…"

"I'll get your coat."

After she retrieved it for him, and led him silently to the door, the sound of the lock sliding open was loud and jarring. Harry was leaving now; how odd it felt, this ending, for even though he had occupied her space for less than a handful of hours, the thought of him vacating it felt almost unnatural.

She desperately wished she had the nerve to ask him to stay.

"Er, bye, then," Harry said, taking a step, then two, out her door before turning to face her. "Thank you for dinner."

She leaned out slightly, already missing his proximity. The winter wind bit at her cheeks. "Bye. Thank you for… everything."

He smiled at her with that perfect, endearing, crooked smile of his.

She sucked in a breath and shut the door before she lost all propriety.

It wasn't until she'd heard a popping sound sometime later and pressed herself into the couch cushion Harry had occupied only moments ago that she noticed the air of her living room was noticeably warmer.

Ginny pressed her fingers to her mouth and grinned.

**PART VI (Harry)**

It was below freezing out, but he canvased the area around Ginny's flat once, then twice- in search of what, he was not exactly sure- before apparating back to Grimmauld, his head twisting and turning and tumbling on exactly how to proceed with Ginny and the Weasleys. How he hadn't managed to splinch himself clean in two was lost on him.

Keeping Ginny secret for much longer than a week (and he was being generous with that estimate) was going to be tough, what with how often he saw the Weasleys, and how close he was to Ron. He'd be lying to them by omission the next time he saw any one of them, and the thought of it made him feel like he was battling against an intense stomach cramp. He had no right to complain, of course: he'd wedged himself right smack in the middle of this all on his own. But the idea of prodding Ginny to taking a leap of faith and reveal herself, and her magic, to the people that cared about her most, did not sit well with Harry, either. She had to come to it on her own. And with all the stubbornness and determination and brilliant fire she possessed, Harry knew she could do it.

As to when, or how long her family would permit her the time, however…

"Where have you been?"

Harry stopped on the first floor landing and stared over at Hermione, who stood beneath a dimly lit hallway sconce, looking cross.

"Alright?" he said.

"That was not an answer!"

"You're right. It wasn't. Goodnight, Hermione."

He did not wait to gather Hermione's reaction. A weighty blanket of tiredness settled over him, and Harry shivered; his body had yet to thaw from his walk around Ginny's flat. The faster he got up these stairs, the faster he could fall into his charmed-warm bed. But with feet heavy as cauldrons, he did not get far before Hermione, predictably, shouted him back down.

Against his better judgment, Harry sighed and turned to look down at her.

"So?" she said, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

"So…?"

"How did it go?"

"How'd what go?"

"Your date, of course!" She crossed her arms and glared at him. "I  _hate_  that you're making me ask."

Harry drew a hand through his cold hair. "It wasn't a date."

"What do you mean, 'it wasn't a date'? You had dinner, didn't you?"

He frowned. "Yes."

"With a woman."

He blinked. "Yes."

"An attractive woman."

Thrown by the adjective, Harry felt his face flush, and even in the darkness, Hermione did not miss his reddened cheeks.

"So, it was a date!"

"I can have friends that are women, can't I?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"It wasn't a date, Hermione," he said roughly. "Let it alone."

Her face fell, and Harry felt like a pillock, especially when she said, "But I thought, you know, since everyone's paired off now… me and Ron, Neville and Hannah, Dean and Seamus, Luna and Rolf… I thought maybe it was your turn."

Suddenly, he was so exhausted, he could barely think straight. His tongue was heavy in his mouth. "Look, I don't want to say anything. To anyone. Not yet."

"Sure, sure, sure," she said brightly. "I get it. I understand completely. One-hundred percent!"

"Right," he said and nodded his head once. "Can I go to bed now?"

"Well, yes, but…"

Harry groaned. "You're killing me."

"Where'd you meet her? Does she know about you? She  _has_  to know about you."

There was a pregnant, ear-ringing pause.

"We went to school together," he stated shortly, "when we were kids."

And he let her come to her own conclusions.

Hermione gasped. "She's a  _muggle_?!"

"Goodnight, Hermione," Harry said firmly.

He turned up the stairs and left Hermione twittering to herself.

**PART VII (Harry)**

_Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz._

_Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz._

Harry's head must've only just hit the pillow because it took everything for him to lift it and squint through the semi-darkness for that incessant buzzing noise.

_Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz._

_Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz._

Then, silence. Blissful, blissful silence.

The buzzing had stopped. He dropped his head back down, brain fuzzy and slow, and shut his eyes. He drifted, then floated, and everything was sweet and smooth and cream again.

But it began anew just seconds later, and Harry was roused from slumber once more.

_Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz._

_Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz._

Harry sat up, reached blindly for his glasses, and thrust them onto his face. It took a moment for sleep to finally release him into harsh, cold reality before he managed to blearily gaze around his bedroom. The curtains around his fourposter were open, and the clock on his nightstand read 5:05 am.

_Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz._

_Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz._

A beat, maybe two, and then Harry launched himself out of bed, his heart in his throat as he reached for the clothes he'd left in a pile on the floor just hours ago, knees smarting from slamming hard onto the dark wood floorboards.

He answered just in time.

"Ginny?"

A rattling, relieved expulsion of breath reached his ear. "Harry?"

"What's happened? What's wrong?"

"I remember. I remember everything."

.

.

.

.

_And the truth it makes no sense, my senses don't ring true._

_I'm feeling the pressure to start anew._

_Tell me one more time, why should I listen?_

_Tell me one more time, the words all go missing._

Learn to Trust- Bad Suns


End file.
